


all our endings were all our beginnings

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Beginnings, Death, Endings, F/F, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 10:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: set post S2 // eve p.o.v. // drabbles // The only person you've really figured out is yourself.





	all our endings were all our beginnings

**[i]**

Oh, she has tricked you. About a million times or more. So, what's one more time, right? What's one more moment where you find yourself near to her fire, flames so deliciously hot as you stick your fingers in, and not sure if you'll live?

“Do you think I could kill you, Eve?”

Oh yes, from the very start. Until the very end. And you stare at her, your own face blank with world-weary knowledge, and she pouts like a wounded baby.

“I do.”

Are these vows? Have the two of you made a pact? In blood spilled, in mistakes made, in the torrid sickness of your mutual attraction and never in good health – at least not mentally. Are these promises? Has she forsaken all others for you, thrown over the money she could make and the games she could play with new women, new men, new and shiny toys?

Oh, she has tricked you. About a million times or more. So... what's one more time, yeah? You've made a deal with the devil, after all, and the devil always wants to collect. Snatch up your soul. Make you dance until you drop. Burn up your body, leave you with ashes coating your useless tongue. She is the devil, after all, but you know... oh you know, so are you...

“I thought you were special.”

You thought you were, too. But bullets don't care about love, the nice kind or the terrible kind; bullets just love to cut you up, get lodged between your heart and all its beats. You won't be fooled by this pain in your chest, you won't be fooled by her impassive gaze looming over you, you won't be fooled by her palm pressing down on you – holding you down, not saving you, never saving you – and oh, she hasn't tricked you, has she?

You weren't fooled by her.  
You were only fooled by yourself.

**[ii]**

She seems to be spinning, a blur of red against the ancient stones, sunsets and earth tones, and it would be a beautiful ballet if only she wasn't losing so spectacularly. You don't know this face, but she told you his name – sounds like a dutiful boy in a man's clothes, fastened into service and lapping up the cruelty – and he doesn't see you, doesn't know you are watching, doesn't care because his hands are full.

Full of Villanelle. Full of sweat building up beneath clothing as his drives his knee into Villanelle's body, over and over, and he doesn't give her time to fight back. He knows better, you suppose. You were always giving her chances to come back around, always giving her opportunities to get the better of you.

It's a weakness, sure, but you are who you are.

And her arms flail, lips covered in spit, and he's going to do what you couldn't do – he is going to kill her. He is going to kill her, meaty hands wrapped about her throat and the weight of his form preventing her from breaking free. He is going to kill her because he is paid to do so, no cares and no concerns. He is going to kill her and forget about her the moment her lifeless bones fall to the ground.

He is going to kill her and so you swing an ax into his spine.

It doesn't actually sink in at first, just shocks and wounds. So you do it again. And again. And again.

He is a tree and you cut him down. Bit by bit. Flesh turned to mush, skull exposed. You bring him back down to the root, carved up something even sharper than a blade. And she leans on the wall and she looks at you like you are a phoenix, glowing in the sky – blinding, positively blinding – and she stumbles into you, gathers you up like the sweetest of candies, burrowing into your hair and guiding you away from your handiwork and whispering the best sort of words into your ears...

...honeyed vowels of violence caressing your cheek, that's what you hear as you count the freckles of blood across your knuckles.

**[iii]**

In the end, you did what she would do.

At least, that's what you tell yourself. In the dead of night, still nervous but bored out of your goddamn mind. In the early morning, sluggish but restless anyway. In your day to day, do a little bit of this or a little bit of that, and walking around silent and staring off into space.

In the end, you removed that noose from around your neck. You took her off of you and you kept your job and earned a nod from Carolyn. Hugo didn't speak to you for the whole flight home and, frankly, you were good with that. You don't want to talk. Not about the sex you used him for, not about the orgasmic symphony you had in your ears as you rode him. You don't want to ever talk about any of this ever again.

At least, that's what you tell yourself. Today. Tomorrow. A few weeks after and so on. You get signed off after a month, back with your nose to the grindstone, and you work new cases and you find new killers and you search and solve and then go back home again. Niko survived the storm, barely, and you want to feel worse than you do. The best you can do is put your name down on the papers he sends and not drag it out anymore. The best you can do is set him free, for good, and say sorry by keeping your mouth shut.

In the end, you walked away from her. You chose sanity. You chose safety. Even those things are illusions to you now. But you've spent years playing at normal, you can do it again. In the end, you let her get caught – maybe by MI6, maybe by the Twelve – you don't know and you don't ask. She might be in a cell somewhere. She might be tortured, never to be truly tamed. She might be dead. You don't know and you don't ask.

“So, Eve... let's talk.”

You've grown to like Martin's face. You trust him more than any other person these days. He keeps advising you to quit this line of work. You are too stubborn, you said so. You are too lonely, but you keep that to yourself.

“Still dreaming about her?”  
“Yes.”  
“Did you write the letters like I suggested?”  
“No. Well... I tried, but threw it in the trash.”  
“Okay, fine. What did it say, though?”

_I miss you. I hate you. I want you back. I'm sorry. I think about you all the time, still still still. I really do hate you. I need you here. I need you more than air. I am so bored. So bored all the time. I miss you, a lot. All the time. I'm sorry. I already said that, but you know, no reason not to say it again. Are you okay? Are you alive? Do you hate me, too? Do you miss me? Do you think about me? Will you come one day to kill me? I almost wish you would. I almost wish..._

“The usual.”

**[iv]**

She never tells you everything. She might be more honest than she thinks, but there are secrets upon secrets layered over her lips. You try to kiss them off, one night in some town you've forgotten the name of, and her grip on your arms is tight enough to leave bruises.

She'll keep what she has to. You'll just have to work harder.

The two of you run, narrowly escaping Rome and somehow without a massive body-count left in your wake. The two of you run – something she is good at, something you are better at than you knew you'd be – and the money will disappear soon if you don't rein her in. But after so many hours of stained sheets and rusted taps, dirt and desperation hanging off your faces, she calls an end to your penny-pinching and gets you both a very nice room.

Charms away the need for answers. Floats in and takes you with her. And you wash away the grime, wash away the fear, wash away the last vestiges of whatever was left of your life before this moment. And she watches you move from bathroom to bedroom, watches you dry your hair until she cannot stand it anymore and takes the towel from your hands and takes over the task.

“I killed someone.”

You can't stop the huff of laughter that comes out of you.

“No shit.”

The towel smells clean. And so do you. You are warm. Her fingers are strong past the plush cotton, kneading into your scalp. You close your eyes.

“Before Rome.”

Was there a before Rome? Well, of course there was. You've not thought about anything else other than this – you, she, running running running.

“Okay.”  
“It was Gemma.”

You open your eyes. You clear your throat. So, you didn't have to tug the truths from her flesh, she's just going to give them over. You don't know what you feel and the towel slips from your head.

“Why?”  
“Because I couldn't kill Niko.”

You were afraid to ask. You were holding your breath. Because you never wanted to hurt him. Because you don't know what you would have done had she hurt him. She lingers behind you, motionless. And she has her secrets and you've wanted to figure her out for so, so long and here you are – in a city far from London, fake name attached to your fake passport, and you're alive and so is Villanelle... and so is Niko... and the only person you've really figured out is yourself.

She has her secrets. You can let her keep a few.

“Okay. Okay then.”

And you dress and she takes you to the restaurant downstairs and you eat and drink and let her touch you, let your own body slide over hers, you capture her kisses and pin them to your breasts, badges worn with honor, and she begs you for more and you give it to her.

You give it all to her now. And so she returns the favor.

/ / /

**(end)**

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing on another thing, but it is very much linked to the actual plot movements of the episodes. So, I satisfy myself with this tiny thing. Supported greatly by the album 'Practice Magic And Seek Professional Help When Necessary' by Tōth. 
> 
> The end is nigh, eh? But damn, this has been an absolute blast. Best show.
> 
> All mistakes are mine. Cheers.


End file.
